


Their Names

by Grimalkenkid



Series: Three Houses Potpourri [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I seriously don't know how to tag this, Moving On, Not Shippy, Past Character Death, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Self-Hatred, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimalkenkid/pseuds/Grimalkenkid
Summary: After the revelation about Nemesis and the 10 Elites, most of Byleth's troops aren't sure what to feel and don't know what to do.But Sylvain knows he can't just do nothing, so he decides to give Rhea a visit.(Now including more characters who, one way or another, find out about the horrible truth behind the Heroes' Relics.)





	1. Sylvain -- Fissure Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> No beta. We die like men.
> 
> Just kidding, but this is an idea I've had kicking about in my head for a few days and really wanted to get out there, since there's practically no canon reactions to this revelation in Verdant Wind.

Sylvain had no idea what he was doing. He usually didn’t know what he was doing -- or didn’t care about the consequences enough to stop -- but this was different. This was about his Crest and his family’s legacy… and how it was seemingly tangled up with Rhea’s family.

All of which was how he ended up standing before the door to the archbishop’s room, the Lance of Ruin resting lightly on his shoulder.

Sylvain checked the Lance again, making sure the burial shroud was properly wrapped around the twitching points. He could still feel the shock of Byleth’s revelation. The first thing she said upon sitting down at the war council was that everything they knew about Seiros and the Ten Elites was wrong, that the Goddess never bestowed Crests upon humanity. No, the Goddess’s Children had been murdered, their blood turned into Crests, and their bones forged into weapons. The next two hours had been devoted to the gathered people freaking out about how this new knowledge, and, ultimately, nothing was decided. Most of the others had wandered off on their own to ponder the implications of this revelation.

But the flirtatious nobleman just couldn’t leave it at that. The twitching spines on the Lance of Ruin seemed to accuse him of that ancient crime until he found himself getting a burial shroud from the church’s store room and marching up the stairs to Rhea’s room.  _ What am I doing? _ Sylvain thought as he raised his hand.  _ I don’t even know what to say. ‘Here’s your dead sibling back. Have fun.’ Yeah… that would go over wonderfully… _

He didn’t give himself too much time to fret over it. With the barest amount of hesitation, he rapped thrice on the sturdy, oaken door. Several moments passed, and the nobleman was about to knock again when he heard a weak “Come in.” from inside.

Rhea was in a bad state. Between her years of imprisonment and the injuries she sustained protecting them at the Agarthan city, she barely looked alive. Her skin was deathly pale, her eyes sunken, and her hands could barely hold up the book in her lap. She’d even given up disguising herself, as her pointed ears poked out from her pale green hair.

Despite all that, as he walked up to her bed, Rhea gave a genuine -- if weary -- smile. “Hello, Sylvain,” she said. “How have you been?”

“I should be the one asking you that,” Sylvain said, pulling up a chair and laying the Lance across his lap. He glanced up, trying to meet her kind gaze, but a wave of guilt washed over his mind, and he looked down at the sheets. “You… you don’t have to pretend. I know you must hate us.”

“Hate you?” The hurt and utter confusion in her voice sounded true to the flirty nobleman’s ear, but it couldn’t be. There had to be disgust and loathing under that caring guise. “Why would you say such a thing? You saved my life. Why would I hate you?”

Sylvain shook his head and further turned his head, staring at the shaft of the Lance. Every so often, he could see the shroud shift as one of the spines twitched beneath the dark fabric. He sighed, “Byleth told us everything. About the Red Canyon. About Nemesis. About the Ten Elites…” A lump suddenly lodged in his throat, and Sylvain couldn’t choke back the pained sob that accompanied it. “How could anyone -- even a Saint -- forgive us after that?”

“Sylvain…”

Rhea shakily reached out for his hand, but the nobleman flinched at the mere gesture. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Not at all.  _ But how  _ did _ I expect things to go? Like how things always go with girls and me? At least I’m used to getting slapped,  _ he thought, biting his tongue to keep the tears at bay. With eyes still on the ground, Sylvain held the Lance out, the haft brushing against the archbishop’s outstretched hand. “Take it,” he gasped, absolutely certain that her retribution was inevitable. “I can’t… shouldn’t… have this… him… her… I don’t know… Just, please…”

As his voice trailed, a long silence took its place. Sylvain closed his eyes, waiting for… something. Anything. The punishment he so rightly deserved as a son of Gautier. His thoughts turned to Miklan, to how the Lance had taken its revenge against his brother by turning him into a mindless monster. Would such a fate await the flirtatious nobleman? Sylvain couldn’t help but think it would be a fitting end for someone like him.

A light tug on the Lance pulled him from his downward spiral, and Sylvain glanced up to see Rhea touching the black fabric covering the weapon’s blade.

“This is one of our burial shrouds, isn’t it?” the archbishop asked. The look on her face was unreadable, and yet the slight inflection in her voice made her sound almost… happy. “You want to lay her to rest, despite the Relic’s power? With Nemesis nearly on our doorstep?”

Sylvain cast his eyes down once more. “I don’t want to wield a corpse. My family’s…  _ I’ve _ disrespected them enough already.” He clenched his teeth as he remembered how many lives he’d cut short with the Lance, how every time that poor dragon’s bones had been soaked with the blood of his enemies. He wanted to curse the Goddess for allowing such a thing to happen, but even more guilt settled in his stomach as he recalled that the Goddess herself was a victim of that ancient massacre. Sylvain felt like throwing up. “And my Crest was their blood, right? Figures. It’s caused me nothing but trouble since the day I was born. If I could rip it out of my body, I’d--”

“That is quite enough, Sylvain!”

The nobleman flinched and dropped the Lance, which landed on the bed with a soft thump. He didn’t want to see the rage in her eyes, yet he couldn’t stop himself from looking up. Rhea seemed more like her old self, sitting up straighter than she had in months and with a righteous fury burning in her eyes. Sylvain gulped.

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

The archbishop huffed and laid her hand back on the Lance of Ruin. “I’ve mourned my family for a thousand years. I’ve wept at seeing their bones used in defense of their killers. I would like nothing more than to take every Hero’s Relic in Fódlan and give them the burials they deserve.” With a sigh, the rage fell from her face, replaced by a resigned sorrow and weary eyes. Slowly, she took Sylvain’s hands in her own, and he could feel her shake with weakness even through his gloves. After taking a deep breath, Rhea continued, gently and softly, “But to be born with their blood in your veins is no curse. You are not Gautier. You’ve stolen nothing. Were my sister to see you, there’s no doubt in my mind that she’d be proud you carry a piece of her with you.”

Sylvain opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a strangled sob. He hated his own blood. How could Rhea think it was something to be proud of? He pulled a hand from her grasp to wipe away his tears before they could fall.  _ I’m sorry, _ the nobleman thought, as if thinking hard enough could make her understand.  _ I’m so, so sorry. _

“If you feel you must repent,” Rhea continued, “then kill Nemesis. Make sure he falls in this final battle and never rises again.” She then guided his hand back to the haft of the Lance of Ruin. “Now, why don’t you take her bones to the chapel? We’ll lay her to rest once her killers are dead.”

Sylvain nodded. “I’ll… I’ll do that. I swear.” He started to get up when a stray thought made him pause. Rhea’s injuries were bad, and the color still hadn’t returned to her face. Would she live long enough to see her siblings buried? Looking down at the exhausted and weak archbishop, he asked, almost shyly, “What was her name?”

“Hm?” Rhea raised an eyebrow. “You… want to know her name? Why?”

_ Because I’m worried you’ll die, and your family’s names will be lost forever? _ Sylvain quickly discarded that thought. He’d already brought up enough horrible memories; he didn’t want to add more to the pile. So, Sylvain shrugged, a bit of his carefree nature working its way back into his voice. “Well, it doesn’t feel right calling it the ‘Crest of Gautier’ now. I mean, you wouldn’t name a horse after the guy who stole it, right?”

Rhea let out a quiet chuckle which turned into a cough. “Fair enough. She was called Eiris, and if I recall correctly, she used to be something of a flirt herself.”

Sylvain snorted before he could stop himself. “Guess I was just destined to become a womanizer then, huh? Actually…” he bowed his head as he thought about how to phrase his next question, “would you want to tell me more about her sometime? It’s okay if you say no; I understand.”

“Of course,” the archbishop said, leaning back against the pillows and letting her eyes drift shut. “Once I’ve had some time to rest.” Sylvain smiled and started walking toward the door, but Rhea’s voice made him pause just before he left. “Sylvain?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Any time.”


	2. Miklan -- Fissure Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Conand Tower, Miklan has a revelation a little too late.
> 
> (This chapter's gonna be a little different from the others, as Rhea's not directly involved, but once the idea came into my head, I sat down and didn't stop writing until it was finished.)

“Not bad for your kind… a bunch of spoiled rotten children.” Miklan snarled and clenched the Lance of Ruin tightly. He could feel the power humming within the blade; even without tapping into its divine abilities, it was a magnificent weapon. It made all the axes he’d been training with up until that point seem like hunks of useless slag.

But the disowned noble still couldn’t kill his little brother… that disgusting cuckoo that pushed him from their parents’ nest. True, Sylvain stood beside his own allies, and Miklan’s grunts had either perished or fled, but the failure still stung. So he grit his teeth and silently ordered the Lance of Ruin to unleash its full power, just like he’d seen his father do while guarding the border.

At first, nothing happened, and the redhead cursed his lack of Crest. He cursed the world for denying him even his revenge, but in his anger, he didn’t notice the steady hum fade from the lance’s haft.

Suddenly, Miklan felt his hand burning. He looked down to see if someone had hit him with a fire spell, but instead saw what looked like inky, black sludge spilling from the Crest stone and wrapping around his hand. The sludge traveled up his arm, seeping in through the joints of his armor and burning every inch of skin it touched.

“What the hell?!” Miklan yelled, frantically trying to tear the gunk off. However, whatever it was, it clung to his body, engulfing him in a blanket of fire and acid. He tried to drop the Lance, but even that didn’t stop its advance. In fact, the sludge itself held the Lance of Ruin to his body, embedding it deep within the ever-growing cocoon of black.

He screamed louder than he ever had before. The pain overwhelmed his senses until he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything as the sludge reached his face and traveled into his lungs. It felt like he was suffocating as the world went black, and yet he remained conscious even as his body burned.

_ No! I… I don’t want to die! _

Miklan wanted to cry. It was unfair. Sylvain got everything handed to him on a silver platter, but the disowned redhead would die choking on the very Relic his family denied him. Something pressed against his chest, piercing his skin with a hundred little needles and strangling his heart. It must have been the Crest stone, come to kill him after he’d been sufficiently tortured.

_ “You have a strong body.” _

The words echoed in Miklan’s mind, angry and spiteful. The Crest stone pulsed, and his heart began to beat in time with it. With every beat, Miklan felt his awareness expand, until he was looking out of a body far larger than it should’ve been. A body that wasn’t human, that wasn’t natural.

_ “Give it to me. Give me your body!” _

A consciousness other than his own pressed against his mind. In his head, he could almost see the form of a gorgeous woman, with cropped short, green hair and pointed ears. She had him pinned, her scarred and muscled body far stronger than it looked. The burning of the sludge had vanished, replaced by an oppressive pressure as her grip on his heart grew tighter.

_ What are you?! _ Miklan thought, unable to say anything besides an incoherent roar. As he struggled against the woman, his inhuman body flailed, crushing his former allies and stone pillars alike.

_ “Eiris.” _

The name echoed throughout his entire being. This was the true name of the Lance of Ruin, her bones forged into the macabre spear of House Gautier. The knowledge seeped into his mind unbidden, and Miklan knew he couldn’t win. He couldn’t resist her demand. She was already drawing his body into herself, into the black beast shape that was a pale imitation of her original form. It would be so easy to give in, to allow her to consume everything he was and let her direct her infinite rage outward against humanity.

But he was nothing if not stubborn. He tore himself away from the warm, almost euphoric embrace Eiris had wrapped him in. Instantly, the pain returned, and Miklan wasn’t sure if it was her doing or if the spears piercing his monstrous hide were the cause.

_ “No!” _ Eiris roared.  _ “You wanted my power! This is the price you’ll pay! I’ll take your body and use it to kill every last man, woman, and child whose heart beats with  _ my  _ stolen blood! And they will know the same fury I felt when that  _ murderer  _ pierced my heart with my own mother’s bones!!!” _

Miklan couldn’t focus. The pain and the anger and the pressure in his head made it impossible to think… until Sylvain rushed up to the monster his brother had become and stuck a lance through his heart.

The disowned redhead could still hear the dead dragon screaming about revenge as he fell to the cold, stone floor. He could think again in those few moments before darkness claimed him, and part of him wished that he could tell his little brother what his Crest was.

_ The Lance, _ Miklan thought, _ is alive. Syl, I’m… sorry… _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What if the Heroes' Relics were still alive? How fucked up would that be?" = my thought process while writing this.
> 
> Not sure how much I'll need to bump up the rating of this fic, but I think T should be good.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments and critiques are welcome!


End file.
